


Stone by Stone

by LadyMinisa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:47:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMinisa/pseuds/LadyMinisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark, from the day they first met to the time of King Robert's visit to Winterfell.</p><p>"Love didn't just happen to us. We built it slowly, stone by stone, over the years." - Catelyn Stark</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost Dreams

Catelyn Tully did not know Eddard Stark, or Lord Eddard Stark as he was now known.  
  
She had been grieving for his brother Brandon, to whom she had been betrothed, when her father suggested she should marry Eddard instead. She had been sitting in the solar at Riverrun late one afternoon, gazing out at the river, when Lord Hoster Tully had drawn up a chair beside her and raised the question of her marriage. She hadn't wanted her father to see her hands shaking so she had pressed them together between her knees, making a long crease in her skirt, and stared at the floor. And she had agreed to his suggestion.  
  
“You need not accept this proposal if you do not wish to,” her father had said. “Only if it makes you happy, my little Cat.”  
  
“It shall father, if it pleases you,” she had replied, not looking at him. If she couldn't marry Brandon, she didn't mind whom she married.  
  
Only later, as she lay in her bed, had she thought of Petyr and how he would feel about this new situation, but she had quickly put him out of her mind.  
  
Each day she walked from her bedroom to the kitchens, to the sept, back to the kitchens, then back to her bedroom - all in a kind of blankness. When anybody spoke to her, she heard herself replying to them, but knew not from whence the words came. Her mind was filled solely with Brandon's words, the words he had written to her in countless letters, stories of his battles and his bravery, confessions of his love for her and gallant promises of how she would be the Lady of the North and how their children would thrive and grow up to be knights and mayhaps kings and queens. He had been her object for six years – her compass point. They had been betrothed when she was but a child of twelve, and since that time she had held on fiercely to the thought that he was hers and she was his.  
  
The conversation with her father about this newly proposed marriage, however, was hazy to her even as it took place, and, in her grief, she had almost forgotten it when she had heard the men on the ramparts shouting that the riders from Winterfell had arrived.  
  
The blankness that had possessed her for weeks had not left her when Eddard Stark had alighted his horse and walked through the courtyard to shake her father's hand. He had moved from Lord Hoster's grip to Jon Arryn's, who had embraced him fondly and patted him sympathetically on his back. Lord Eddard had grinned ruefully at the gesture, bending down to shake nine-year-old Edmure's hand with great seriousness. He had stood up and looked past her for a moment, and then, realising his mistake, rested his eyes upon hers and walked towards her with a solemn face. She had raised her shoulders up as he approached and tried to cast a kindly smile across her face. His eyes had pointed upwards but his head downwards as if he was trying to shield himself from her, or her from him. He had taken her hands in his for a brief moment and then held her right hand and kissed it, bowing his head and saying simply “My lady”.  
  
“My lord,” she replied with a small curtsey.  
  
“Come now Eddard,” said Lord Hoster, “I will show you your quarters,” and with another quick look at Catelyn, Eddard had followed her father into the castle, with Edmure hopping at their heels.  
  
A banquet had been planned for the following evening and all of Riverrun was alive with activity. Catelyn had decided to forego her supper that evening, instead retiring to her room to read through her letters from Brandon. The recurring nightmare she had been experiencing over the last few weeks was not helping her appetite. The vivid dreams were a horrific reminder to her of the manner of his death, dying as he tried (and failed) to save his father Lord Rickard from that unimaginably gruesome fate at the hand of King Aerys. With all her heart she wanted King Aerys dead. Her instinct told her to hope that no one could read her treasonous thoughts, although as far as she could tell all at Riverrun hoped for the same thing, as did all Storm's End, in particular (or so she had heard) Robert Baratheon. And surely so too did all at Winterfell, if not the entire population of the North.  
  
How could a king kill two innocents so cruelly? They had gone to King's Landing to beg for the life of Brandon's sister who still now lay suffering, having been kidnapped by the evil Prince Rhaegar. Her dear brave Brandon. He had died for no other crime than protecting his family. Family, duty, honour. What a cruel world it was where such good things could end in death. Catelyn was overcome with the unfairness of the world.  
  
“My Sweet Lady” his last letter read. “As we ride down the King's Road I only wish we could stray a little further West so that I might see you again. Alas, we both must wait a while for that happy day. But rest assured that when I fight, I fight in your name, and thus I am certain I can never be defeated.” A tear rolled down her cheek and onto her red dress, another dark spot to join the dozens of others upon her chest. Upon the silk, they turned the colour of blood. She shivered.  
  
There was a knock at her door, and Lysa's head appeared. Her sister shut the door, walked to the bed and sat down beside her, noting with a raised eyebrow the pile of letters in her hand.  
  
“Sweet sister” Lysa soothed, “you must eat you know. It's not as if you won't be married at all. And at least your husband will be a young man, even if he is not as handsome as Brandon was.”  
  
Catelyn winced to hear his name. And the word 'was' once again caught her off guard, making her heart fall to the floor like a lump of lead. _Not was. Is, is! – It should be is!_  
  
“I don't... I did not...love Brandon for his looks, sister,” said Catelyn indignantly, immediately wondering if that was entirely truthful.  
  
She closed her eyes and tried not to be angry with Lysa for her blunt words. _She is only sixteen, and has not yet learned subtlety_ , she thought.  
  
“Have you yet tried on your dress?” said Lysa.  
  
“No,” replied Catelyn, barely focusing on the question.  
  
“Good, then let's both do that tomorrow. I have been waiting for you. Our maids' cloaks are finished, although I think mine sits rather awkwardly across my shoulders.”  
  
“I'm sure it will be fine,” said Catelyn, reverting to her numbness.  
  
“What will you wear to the feast tomorrow?” asked Lysa, getting up to walk around Catelyn's room, mischievously touching the oils on her night-stand one after the other, and looking surprised when Catelyn didn't reprimand her.  
  
“Some dress or other,” said Catelyn.  
  
“Oh you must wear this one" said Lysa, pulling out a blue silk dress from the wardrobe. “It brings out the colour of your eyes so beautifully. All the men adore you when you wear it”.  
  
When her sister neither replied nor moved, she continued “I think I shall wear my red silk, but I haven't completely decided.”  
  
“I'm sure you'll look lovely sweet sister,” said Catelyn more flatly than she had intended. “Lysa, I really ought to go to sleep now,” she said more kindly.  
  
In truth she was eager to be rid of Lysa and her incessant talking. She could scarce believe that there had ever been a time when she had listened to Lysa with amusement. There had been many such times, but now the topics of her chats seemed so ridiculously inconsequential, that Catelyn had to summon all her strength to prevent herself from screaming for her sister to be quiet.  
  
When Lysa had gone, she changed into her nightdress and lay in the dark with her arms around a cushion. Her thoughts were of Brandon, but soon enough she started thinking about his brother and what Brandon had told her about him.  
  
“Ned is a strange fish” Brandon had said.  
  
I am a fish, Catelyn had thought and smiled, but Brandon had not seen the pun.  
  
“Most of the time he barely speaks, but he is a good man. A better man than I. Devoted to the old gods. But very sensible - always thinking. Not fond of pomp and ceremony,” Brandon had added with a laugh.  
  
 _The old gods!_ thought Catelyn, tossing in her bed, wondering what her mother would have thought. _I know nothing of them at all!_ Would he expect her to? What else would he expect of her? She wished she had asked Brandon more about his brother.  
  
She had had six years to learn about Brandon and his thoughts and desires. She had prided herself in how well-prepared she had been for her marriage. She had not known Brandon well, having met him in person only twice, but she had tried to learn everything there was to know about him. She had studied him with diligence as though he were the subject of a lesson. Yet for all this, here she was about to be married to a man she knew next to nothing about. Her girlhood plans had been changed in the cruellest way possible and now, accompanying her grief for Brandon, was a very real fear for herself.  
  
 _What is to become of me?_  
  
She resolved that she must find a way to acquaint herself with the new Lord Stark, as soon as she possibly could. She knew herself well enough to know that her fear would only grow unless she could find something tangible to dispel it. Her fear of the unknown was greater than most people's, she knew this of old. She must not allow herself to be so consumed by it that she fall to pieces on her wedding day – or night.  
  
She shivered again and held the cushion tight.  
  
The following night, as she donned the blue silk dress for the feast, she thought to herself that the evening promised at least to be enlightening if not enjoyable. Edmure had been so over-excited that afternoon that she had sent him to the yard to take out his extra energy on his wooden sword and a sack of hay. At least someone was looking forward to the party.  
  
The Great Hall was filled with tables of various shapes and sizes, in a more informal arrangement than there was to be on the night of their wedding less than two weeks hence. At tonight's feast, she sat next to Lord Eddard and opposite Lord Jon and Lysa. Eddard and Jon spent much time speaking of times past. Eddard Stark had been fostered for much of his childhood with Jon Arryn in the Eyrie, and it was obvious to her that the two men held each other in high esteem, despite the nearly forty-year difference in their ages. It struck her when she saw him with Lord Jon, that Eddard's spirit seemed to be much older than his nineteen years – almost the polar opposite of her vibrant young Brandon who had been so full of life and youth that he had often seemed to have fire running through his veins. There had always been a hearty laugh ready and waiting to escape his lips. But, given his recent pain and loss, perhaps she was judging Lord Eddard unfairly.  
  
It was only when Lord Jon turned to Lysa and directed a few softer words to her alone, that Lord Eddard turned to Catelyn. But even then, rather than talking to her, he merely smiled bashfully and looked across the room to watch the musicians.  
  
“Do you dance, my lord?” asked Catelyn, remembering how fine a dancer Brandon had been.  
  
“I'm afraid I don't my lady, although I will learn if it pleases you. Dancing does not come easy to me, I must confess.”  
  
“I will teach you a dance Lord Eddard,” chimed Lysa. “There is to be a wedding dance next week, don't you know?” she said with an impish grin.  
  
“Thank you, I would be grateful,” said Eddard graciously.  
  
And with that Lysa and Lord Jon took to the floor for a dance and Catelyn was left at the table alone, albeit in a crowded room, with her future husband. Lord Eddard took a swig of wine from his glass and then took so long to drink it that Catelyn felt she needed to fill the silence.  
  
“I would like to show you Riverrun one day soon my lord, if it pleases you.”  
  
“I would like that, my lady. Tomorrow I must meet with the war council. Mayhaps sometime the next day would suit you?”  
  
“Yes, very well, my lord,” she replied, pleased.  
  
Then, afraid of another awkward silence, she hurried to speak the first thought that came to her.  
  
“Is the war to be serious?”  
  
Lord Eddard gave her a dark glance over his wine glass.  
  
“All wars are serious my lady,” he said, replacing his glass on the table.  
  
Catelyn didn't know what to say. Perhaps he saw her bite her bottom lip or look down and roll her eyes at her own stupidity. He definitely saw her blush, for he smiled at her then, softly and far more easily than before.  
  
“I am told there is much to see at Riverrun” he said after another little pause, making an obvious effort to change the subject. “The rivers and the river gates, and the views from your castle's towers are much-renowned in the North.”  
  
But she noticed that what little light-heartedness had been in him earlier, had now left the man, and she was sorry she had spoken of the war.  
  
“Yes my lord, there is much to see. I am biased, but I'm very fond of this place.”  
  
“What place?” asked Lysa appearing again at the table with flushed cheeks, looking pretty.  
  
“Riverrun,” said Catelyn shortly.  
  
“I look forward to seeing the Vale and the Eyrie” said Lysa emphatically to Lord Jon as he seated himself beside her, “the architecture is supposed to be exquisite - almost other-worldly - is it not my lord?”  
  
“Well now,” said Lord Jon with a twinkle in his eye, “Ned is as good a man as any to tell you about the Eyrie.”  
  
“I would be only too happy to do so” said Lord Eddard, “but for now I hope you will forgive me for I must retire. I am suddenly very tired”.  
  
“I hope you will be comfortable my lord,” said Catelyn, rising.  
  
She was ashamed at how relieved she felt at his sudden departure. He looked at her with his solemn face and said “Good night my lady,” and Catelyn realised that this was more than likely the first of many times that Lord Eddard Stark would say those words to her.  
  
For a moment their eyes met and lingered. Then abruptly he bowed his head at Catelyn, bid goodnight to Lord Jon and Lysa, and was gone.  
  
“Whatever did you do to him?” whispered Lysa after he had gone and Lord Jon had begun a conversation with Lord Karstark. “It's ever so early and he has already gone to bed?”  
  
She lowered her tone and whispered sharply in Catelyn's ear, “You really must try to be nicer to him Cat, you don't want to put him off.” Then she frowned.  
  
“You didn't talk about Brandon did you?”  
  
“I am not a fool Lysa,” she said.  
  
Shortly after, Catelyn took Edmure to bed, helped him remove his fine garments, then tucked him up tight, blowing out the candles and kissing his cheek.  
  
“Ca-at?” he asked in his favourite sing-song whine, just as she reached the door to leave.  
  
“Ye-es!” she replied with a grin, copying his tone.  
  
“Do you like Lord Stark?”  
  
In the darkness her grin vanished and she hesitated for a second.  
  
“Of course,” she said.  
  
“I don't.” said her brother. “I think he looks like a statue. I wish you weren't going to marry him. I wish you could marry Petyr now,” he said.  
  
“I don't want to marry Petyr, Edmure.”  
  
“But you don't want to marry Lord Stark either do you? I can tell.”  
  
She swallowed her breath.  
  
“Good night my darling boy,” she said, walking back to his bedside to kiss him on his brow.  
  
“Dream sweet dreams,” she whispered.  
  
For the remainder of the evening, Catelyn sat quietly at the feast table, watching Lysa and Lord Arryn and all the other lords and ladies as they occupied themselves with dancing and drinking and laughing. After a while, Lord Hoster came to sit beside her.  
  
“Why so quiet my Cat?” he asked. “Second thoughts?” he asked softly.  
  
He looked worried, his dear wrinkles furrowed with concern. He too had noticed Lord Eddard's early departure from the feast.  
  
“No Father,” she said, as ever not wanting to disappoint him. “No.” She repeated the word, as if to convince herself of its truth.  
  
She took a breath to speak but then thought better of it. They watched the dancing for a time.  
  
“It's just that there's always such an awful lot to think about, isn't there?” said Catelyn.  
  
He smiled then, putting his arm about her shoulders and drawing her to him so that he could kiss the top of her head. They talked for a while longer - about their guests and the evening's goings-on - until he asked her to dance and they swung around the floor, in that great hall she loved so well, her holding him tighter than was strictly necessary.  
  
[To be continued]


	2. The Weirwood

First light was orange and it was streaming into the dining hall as Catelyn sat down to break her fast. She had been very early to rise, and her head was so full of wedding guests and menus that she had forgotten her promise to Lord Eddard. She hadn't even noticed that he had entered the room when he sat down on the bench opposite her and asked if she still wished to give him a tour of Riverrun.

“Yes!” she replied after a pause, her eyes wide.

A shadow crossed his face and he was quick to look down at his plate. She suspected that he realised that she had forgotten their arrangement.

“After we break our fasts - if it suits you my lord,” she said, thinking of what a fool she was. _At least now I won't have time to be nervous._

“That suits me well," he said awkwardly, with a piece of bread in his mouth. He swallowed. "I have been looking forward to it my lady,” he said quietly in the direction of his boots.

Catelyn wanted to ask about the war council meeting, but remembered her previous mistake and spoke only of lighter subjects: the weather, southern foods, and the kinds of flowers that grow in The Riverlands. Eddard listened without speaking, looking away quickly whenever she caught his eye. Lysa entered the room just as they were finishing, and when she came to join them at their table, Catelyn rose and said “Are you ready for a walk now my lord?”

As they left the room, Lysa caught Catelyn's eye, giving her sister an encouraging nod as she escorted Lord Eddard through the door to the spiral staircase which would lead them to the solar overlooking the rivers. She was very conscious of his presence behind her as she lifted her skirts and walked, as gracefully and as swiftly as she could, up the uneven stone steps of the narrow staircase. She willed herself not to trip. Having reached the solar, Catelyn walked towards the stone balcony which formed one wall of the triangular room. Now that she was alone with Eddard, she steeled herself for a day of awkward conversation. She was determined to make it as comfortable and relaxed as possible, and she guessed that she would have to do the larger part of the work to make it so.

He opened the external door for her, and she stepped onto the balcony into the clean morning air.

“If you stand here you can see where the two rivers intersect,” she said, beckoning her future husband to her side at the far end of the balcony.

“That is the Red Fork. And there is the Tumblestone,” she said pointing far below, where the sun was glinting and spearing off the many flowing river currents, making them look like facets of a jewel.

“Ah yes,” said Lord Eddard, suddenly showing a keen interest. “My brother told me about this view.”

And with that Catelyn lost all her nerve, remembering having had exactly the same conversation with Brandon when he had first come to Riverrun. She had shown him the rivers from this very spot. She tensed, placing both her hands on the stone balcony to steady herself. She thought that the next week might pass more easily if she could turn into stone herself.

“I am sorry my lady,” he began, turning to face her and tentatively moving his hand as if to touch her arm.

“It is a lovely morning,” said Catelyn, throwing a glance in his direction but not looking at him. "Let us tour the grounds my lord." And picking up her skirts she walked back into the solar.

“Yes of course,” he mumbled, and he followed her as she hurried across the room towards the staircase. She led him further down the spiral stairs than they had been previously. She didn't want to see Lysa just then.

Catelyn spent the morning showing Lord Eddard her castle home, intent on him seeing everything she had ever showed Brandon and more. She showed him the armoury, the sweet-smelling kitchens, and the Wheel Tower with its great churning waterwheel. She even rowed him around the inside of the Water Gate, showing him the rusty portcullis through which boats had been passing for over a thousand years. But when they reached the seven-sided sept built by her father where they would be married in just a few short days, she avoided taking him inside. Instead, she chose to show him the gardens surrounding the sept that her mother had loved so dearly. He asked her the names of many flowers he did not know, and it pleased her that he wanted to know them.

They walked along the riverbanks and she showed him all the places she loved most. As she talked and Lord Eddard listened, she began to grow more accustomed to his silence, and more understanding of it. She discovered that her thoughts were slowing down. Whereas with Lysa and Edmure she had to be quick to get a word in at all, this man - this stranger who would be her husband - was quiet and thoughtful. She found she could settle into his silence without feeling awkward. Far from frustrating her as she had first imagined it would, she found his stillness calming.

“Here is the best part of the river for swimming,” said Catelyn, as they approached a bank. “This is really where Lysa and Petyr and I spent most of our childhood, when I think about it.”

“Petyr?” questioned Lord Eddard.

“Petyr Baylish,” answered Catelyn.

“Oh yes,” said Eddard, remembering the name and the tale of Brandon's duel for Catelyn's hand. "Where is he now?" he asked casually.

"The Fingers," she replied, turning away from him and reaching down to yank a reed from the riverbank.

“Now here was a fine game,” she said with a smirk. “There was always a fight for the best sword, and then you tied a long leaf around the bottom like this for the hilt.”

Her fingers worked deftly and soon enough she turned around to jump and point her sword at Lord Eddard in a fierce pose.

“Ha haaa!” she said, resisting the temptation to say “You're dead” - which is what would always come next when she was playing with Petyr and Lysa so many years ago.

Lord Eddard smiled a real smile then – the first she had seen on his face. His eyes sparkled, but he did not speak.

“Oh,” said Catelyn, remembering herself. “You must think me awfully childish,” she said, letting her reed-sword slip from her fingers onto the grass.

“Not at all my lady,” and he reached and found a reed for himself. _Not a good one though_ , thought Catelyn.

She remembered she had shown Brandon this place, but had not showed him the game. She found it odd that she couldn't picture herself having ever told Brandon about it.

“There is another fine game,” she said, stopping at a well-trodden section of the bank. “One person stands out there in the shallow part of the river with his sword, and then the others fling balls of mud at him and he must hit them out of the way.” She laughed.

“Not such a good game when you're wearing your finest clothes then,” said Lord Eddard pointing at her skirts.

“Indeed,” she said and smiled again.

“It is strange, the passing of time. Do you not think?” she asked him. “You think you know yourself and then all of a sudden you have changed into something completely different, and you look back and you wonder why. And then you realise that it's all because of other people. The people bringing you up, the people you meet, always telling you this and that, wrong and right. And most of the time you're left flailing around trying to pinpoint which is which.”

Lord Eddard looked embarrassed at the depth of her conversation but swallowed and said “It takes time for us to learn who we are, but, once we have done so, I think of everything we do in our lives the most important thing is to stay true to ourselves.”

They walked further along the riverbank.

“I was really talking about how hard it is to be a child. When I have children I won't forget how hard it is.”

Suddenly she realised she ought to have said - “When we have children” - and she looked up in horror at her omission but he looked at her with kind eyes and smiled.

“Were you close to your mother my lady?” he asked.

“She died when I was eleven,” said Catelyn, “on the birthing table." She paused. "We were close, yes.”

“My mother also died when I was young,” he said.

“I know my lord,” she replied and looked at him with sadness in her eyes.

He looked surprised, and then nodded in the realisation that Brandon must have told her.

“Is there a godswood at Riverrun?” he asked.

“Alas no my lord” she replied. “There was one, many years ago, but the Andals cut down the weirwood. The wood is still there, and the weirwood stump. Would you like to see it?” she asked.

“Very much,” he replied and so she turned back on herself, walking towards the ancient wood and cutting a fast pace so that he had to stride to keep up with her.

“Here it is,” said Catelyn, showing him her favourite part of the wood, a glade that was alive with wildflowers and pecking birds, set amongst a maze of little streams. “And this is the stump of the weirwood," she said, walking just beyond one edge of the glade. "Just imagine how beautiful a tree it would have been.”

He stopped and looked up at the hole in the wood, created by the absence of the white weirwood, which let in a shaft of sunshine through the redwoods.

“It really is a horrible shame,” said Catelyn. “I've always thought it, although I've never even seen a weirwood – except in paintings.”

“Their leaves are almost the colour of your hair my lady,” said Lord Eddard.

He looked embarrassed at his own words and he sat down abruptly on the great white stump of the ancient tree. She sat beside him, quite close but not touching. They remained there a while, listening to the sounds of wind on leaves, water on stone, and the scuffling creatures of the wood. The afternoon sunlight shone upon them from many angles, filtered by the trees, and she thought it so beautiful that she wished she had spent more time here. Soon she would be leaving for Winterfell and would have to say goodbye to all of this. The thought made her heart feel heavy. She looked to the man sitting next to her and saw him take a deep breath and sigh, bowing his head down a little. She turned to him and put her hand on his hand as it rested on his knee.

“My lord,” said Catelyn, without thinking of where the words were coming from “I am so, so sorry for your loss. I am sorry that we must be married...”

He looked up at that, but she had not finished.

“...in times of such great sadness. I know how hard all of this must be for you, and now you must go to war.” She leaned across and kissed him on the cheek, a deep and pressing kiss, and it seemed to her that he leaned into it - although maybe she was wrong. She inhaled and exhaled, her lips on his cheek. When she pulled away, he squeezed her hand in return and looked as though he was going to speak.

She gave him some time.

“And I am sorry for your loss my lady,” he finally said with a thick voice.

She didn't know what to say. She didn't want to lie and say she felt no loss, but she knew her loss was nothing compared to his. She said nothing, letting her hand slip away from his.

“Did you love my brother Catelyn?”

This was the first time she had heard him speak her name. He said it with gentle reverence, where on Brandon's lips her name had resounded like a trumpet. She froze, her heart beating fast, choosing her words carefully. Without looking at him she said, “I did not know him my lord”.

“You knew him a hundred times better than we know each other now,” he said and in her periphery she could see him looking at her, waiting for her response.

She turned to look at him, and said “Then we have much to learn my lord,” and kissed him gently, this time on the lips.

His arm moved tentatively around her waist, one large hand pressing into the small of her back and the other moving up to the back of her neck. Her arms moved across his back to his shoulders as their lips and tongues moved against each other, testing. She didn't breathe for what seemed like an hour but was probably less than a minute until the moment was broken by some very unwelcome shouting.

“Lady Catelyn! My lady WHAT are you doing?”

Catelyn's septa was walking fast towards them. Her skirts were getting caught on briers and brush and fallen branches despite being held fiercely in her hands. Her face was red and she was aghast. Catelyn immediately felt like a sullen teenager rather than the future Lady of Winterfell. She tried to maintain her composure, protesting “Septa! In a week we will be married!”

Septa Mordane grabbed Catelyn by the arm, drawing her to her feet and moving her away firmly. She stood directly in front of Catelyn, as if to protect her.

“You are not married yet!” she said, looking sternly at Lord Eddard.

From her position behind Septa Mordane, Catelyn looked at Eddard and rolled her eyes. His mouth twitched but he covered it by moving into a deep bow saying “It was entirely my fault good septa – I was completely out of order and beg the forgiveness of both you and my lady”.

“Hmmmm,” said Septa Mordane suspiciously, making Catelyn cringe with embarrassment. “They say you are an honourable man Lord Eddard, let us hope that is so.”

“Septa no!” cried Catelyn, horrified. “It was I who was at fault. Let us forget this at once, as nothing has happened at all.”

And yet something had happened. As they walked back to the castle in strained silence, Septa Mordane walking between them, Catelyn felt much better about everything than she had that morning. She thought that there were worse men in the world than Lord Eddard Stark - and that was a great relief indeed.

[To be continued]


	3. Mud

The next days passed quickly. Parcels of food and stores arrived from villages and farms across The Riverlands. The political unrest caused by the rebellion meant that long-distance travel was becoming increasingly difficult; but, nonetheless, a cart carrying a crate of the finest wine had arrived from as far away as Dorne. The inside of the castle was alive with activity, from the kitchens to the guest rooms to the banquet halls. No matter how hard Catelyn worked, it seemed that there was always to be something else that needed to be done. As a bride she was not in charge of the wedding preparations, but she remained Lady of Riverrun at least for a few more days, and acted as such. There were rugs to be beaten, candles to be replaced, chandeliers to be hung and, on her and Lysa's wedding garments, stitches to be stitched.

As the day of the wedding drew nearer, Catelyn felt like she had been snapped out of a stupor. Embarrassed, she stowed away all the letters from Brandon in a locked box high in a cupboard. She put away the jewellery he had given her too, and picked fresh flowers for her night-stand so that she could look at them instead of the bouquet of flowers that Brandon had given her the day they first met. She had dried the flowers and kept them for years, tied together with a red velvet ribbon. Now, with a heavy heart, she threw them into the fire watching them spark and burn. And with that, she put away the past and resigned herself to her new future, launching herself into the business of wedding preparations morning and night.

Despite the urgency of this work, each morning at first light Catelyn went to the sept to pray. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts, and most times she found the cool sandstone building empty of people. Her father had built the sept for her lady mother, and she loved with all her heart the paintings of The Seven that came to life on the walls around the altar. Painted on marble with vivid colours, the gods stood taller than the tallest man she knew. Once, when she was a child, she had met the artist who painted them. She remembered his piercing violet eyes.

"To paint them, you have to feel them - in your heart and in your head," he had said.

Since that day, she had always thought of his words when she prayed.

Each morning she lit candles to The Mother, The Father, The Warrior and The Crone.

She prayed for The Mother to grant her compassion in her marriage and the ability to understand Lord Eddard Stark.

She prayed to The Father to grant her good judgement in all her decisions, big and small. She realised that she would be praying to The Father more often when the time came that her own father was miles away and she could no longer climb the stairs to his solar to hear his words of advice.

She prayed to The Warrior to grant Lord Eddard safe passage as he rode to war, and courage in battle and in all his trials to come - and to grant the same to her father, Lord Jon, Robert Baratheon and all their bannermen.

And she prayed to The Crone to grant wisdom to her and all those she loved – particularly to Edmure, who was so young. She knew her brother would miss her when she left Riverrun - whenever that was to be - and she dared not even think how much she would miss him.

She also prayed to the gods for strength in keeping her faith. Brandon had told her there was no sept at Winterfell, and this unnerved her. Septa Mordane would be with her, but she knew that few in the North would join them in their prayers to The Seven. To quell her misgivings, she had decided that she would create her own small altar in some corner of her room at Winterfell. She imagined herself kneeling on a cold floor, closing her eyes and thinking of the sept at Riverrun, so many miles to the south. And so each morning she committed to her memory a different corner or crevice of this cherished place, so that she would not forget even the smallest detail.

Catelyn was marrying in order to fulfil her duty - and knowing that it was both her duty and her father's wish made it easier for Catelyn to accept that she must eventually leave Riverrun. For so long, she had held romantic visions of riding into Winterfell on Brandon's horse, her seated in front of him, his arms around her. The memory of these notions seemed so foolish now. Now that she was almost a bride, all the joy had been taken out of her feelings about marriage and she was left with only dread. She was well aware that her act of marrying Eddard Stark would bring Lord Hoster into the rebellion, and into danger. Their friends and enemies alike would see their marriage as an act of war. And in the past few days her father had told her that several of his bannermen would not join him in the rebellion against King Aerys. This meant that some of the oldest Riverlands Houses - families she knew almost as well as her own - would not attend her wedding. She realised with some sadness that she might never see them again. The Darrys, the Rygers, the Goodbrooks and the Mootons would soon be fighting against her father, rather than sharing wine around the banquet table as they had so many times before. The knowledge that old Tully bannermen would now be ready to kill her father made her more nervous than she could say. The thought of friends turning against them made enemies seem even more fearsome. A host of doubts and fears followed which she dared not voice, even to her father. _Are they right to challenge King Aerys? Who will win? What will happen if they lose?_

An added source of disappointment to Catelyn was the news that Lord Eddard and Lord Jon were to ride to war the very day after the wedding. She was sworn to secrecy on the subject - not even Lysa knew - but she was grateful to her father for trusting her enough to forewarn her. She felt that her husband's hasty departure would make her marriage seem even more political than it already was - in the eyes of the people, and also in her own heart. She didn't want this to reflect badly on the marriage in future - if it had a future. She could not bear for people to see her marriage as something to mock or laugh at - not in The Riverlands, and especially not in the North where no one knew her. She didn't want the union between House Tully and House Stark to start off any more negatively than it already had.

And another glaring thought was always present. She tried hard to push it to the back of her mind. _What if Lord Eddard never returns from the war?_

If he did not return, Catelyn suspected that she would quickly be married again. But her maidenhead could not be regained, and what if no one would have her? What would happen to her then?

She was thankful that she was to remain at Riverrun while Lord Eddard rode south. Lord Hoster had made certain of that. She wished she could stay safe at Riverrun forever. But no, that would not do. She thought of the Tully words - Family, Duty, Honour.

For days Lysa had been asking to speak with her alone, but Catelyn had been too busy with this candlestick, or that carpet, or else she had felt too tired. She felt guilty that she had not given her sister more time. And so the afternoon before the wedding, when everything was as ready as it could be, Catelyn sought Lysa out and walked with her down to the riverbank. She was worried when she saw how erratic her sister had become. She was walking differently - her head held higher than usual, and speaking more breathlessly. Knowing her sister well, Catelyn sensed her excitement and fear. She knew Lysa was not happy about Jon Arryn's advanced age - he had seen his fiftieth name day long hence - but Catelyn had thought that Lysa was resigned to her fate, consoled in the knowledge that she was to be Lady of the Vale.

“I do hope I know what to do,” said Lysa, when they had put a good distance between them and the castle. “Cat, I don't think I'm ready!” she squeaked, grabbing hold of Catelyn's arm.

Catelyn squeezed her sister's hand, rubbing the top of it with her thumb as she had so many times before.

“You will be, sweet sister, and Lord Jon is a kind and gentle man. He will help you.”

“He is old Cat.”

“He is kind and gentle, and everything will be all right,” said Catelyn wishing, not for the first time, that she had an older sister in whom she could confide.

Her own fears were much the same as Lysa's, but the news that their husbands would ride to war the very day after the wedding made her even more fearful. It put so much more expectation on that one night, _Tomorrow night!_ , and she was grateful she could spare Lysa the knowledge.

“Lord Eddard is also kind, sweet sister,” said Lysa, sensing her fear.

“I know,” said Catelyn. “I know he is.”

"Although it's clear he'll never be a passionate man. But perhaps that makes it easier," giggled Lysa, letting go of Catelyn's hand.

Catelyn frowned at her sister, but Lysa did not notice.

They sat down beneath an old languid willow that spilled its green leaves onto the riverbank. The sun felt particularly warm to Catelyn after her many days behind thick stone walls. She was grateful for a moment of calm.

“How helpless we are!” said Lysa, leaning against the trunk of the tree. “If we were men we would know what to do.”

Catelyn understood her meaning at once. “Only if we had done it before,” she said flatly.

“How do you know when to lie down, or open your legs or...” started Lysa.

“Shhhh Lysa,” whispered Catelyn, pointing to Lord Jon and Lord Eddard who had come into view walking along the river towards them.

The men looked to be in deep conversation, and had not spotted Catelyn and Lysa. Soon they came close enough for Catelyn to make out their words. Lysa looked panicked and hurriedly began removing and replacing pins in her hair, apparently uninterested in what the men were saying.

“It will be dangerous Ned," Catelyn heard Lord Jon say in a deep voice. "They will have spies all along the road, and even if we make it into the city we won't know who to trust.”

“It seems we must trust no one but ourselves," Eddard replied.

"But we will not be able to do it by ourselves," said Lord John. "The Lannisters... Well we just don't know."

Eddard sighed. "Perhaps all we can do is keep our wits about us and hope the gods have mercy upon us.”

“Ladies!” said Lord Jon, looking up. "I did not see you there. I am afraid we are talking of grave things not befitting such a sunny day as this.”

“Then stop talking at once and join us,” said Lysa, smiling prettily.

The men sat on the grass and made small talk that irritated Catelyn. She stood up and wandered to the edge of the river to find some stones to skim across the water, not noticing that Lord Eddard had followed her until she heard him speak close behind her.

“My lady, are you well?” he said, making her turn around sharply and take a step back into the river with an “Oh!” - the water coming up to her ankle.

He hurried forward and held out his hand to help her back on to the bank. Lifting her skirts with one hand, she took his hand with the other and felt his strength as he pulled her up. She could feel her cheeks turning red and she was unable to stop them.

“I am sorry I startled you. Your slipper!” he exclaimed, looking guilty.

“Don't worry my lord,” said Catelyn, squelching her toes inside it. “I was miles away.”

“Where were you?” he asked.

“Kings Landing – in the Red Keep,” she answered.

They looked at each other for a time.

“I'm sorry you had to hear our conversation,” he said.

“Unlike my sister, I would much rather hear it than not hear it my lord.”

Feeling uncomfortable, she turned towards the river. Seeing some thick reeds, she pulled one up and absent-mindedly began making a play sword.

"And what do you make of it my lady?" he asked tentatively.

“Will you return from the capital? Will you be..."

She struggled to find the right word - her first thought had been to say "killed".

"Will you be safe?" She worked her hands around the thick reed, wrapping a long leaf tight around its base.

“One can never be certain of such things my lady, but I do intend to be careful. I very much hope to return unscathed.”

“Must you go?” she asked quickly and determinedly, almost scowling as she tied a tight knot into the hilt of the sword.

“Yes I must," he replied immediately, almost sternly. "They murdered my father and brother. Robert Baratheon is my brother and he needs my help." With a catch in his throat he added quietly "And I must find my sister.”

She turned to look at him. “Thank you my lord. It helps to hear these things from your mouth. I did not mean to..."

Her voice trailed away. His face was so stern it frightened her. She looked away again, focusing again on the sword.

After another pause, but still not looking at him, she said "I know you must go. I just wish it need not be so soon. It makes everything so rushed." She heard her own words and thought how ridiculous they must sound to him. "But I understand that it must be this way,” she added, tying the last knot in her sword and looking up at him.

Much to her surprise, Lord Eddard had removed his boots and stockings and was rolling up the legs of his breeches. When he had finished he put out a hand towards her, nodding at the reed sword and raising his eyebrows. His face was as serious as ever as she handed it to him, hilt-first. She was wide-eyed, but a smile had started to form at one corner of her mouth. She watched as he waded out into the river a little way, turning around awkwardly to face her. She almost laughed out loud at him then. She could have waded out there herself in half the time, but then she knew the river and its idiosyncrasies very well.

“Well go on then," he called. "Show me how you make these mud missiles of yours. You're not in your wedding gown yet.” He raised his eyebrows again, looking pointedly at her skirts which were already muddy from her earlier stumble.

She smiled then and took off her slippers, feeling the warm grass between her toes. She walked to the edge of the bank and bent to pick up a handful of mud – not too wet, not too hard. She hadn't done this for years and the feeling of the mud between her fingers made her think of Petyr. She moulded two balls in her hand and threw first one and then the other tentatively at the man who this time tomorrow would be her husband. The first one didn't reach him, the second flew past him. The third hit him in the chest, and mud splattered onto his neck.

“You're dead!” she called, without thinking.

“Only wounded,” he said.

She threw another at him and he hit it back towards her with such force that it splattered up her dress and onto her face. He waited to see how she would react, but it only made her throw mud at him with greater ferocity and precision.

“Ahhhh!” he cried, moving this way and that, swinging the reed violently and laughing as he tried to prevent himself from falling over.

He hit another back at her. She dodged it and lost her footing and then she was in the river, giggling.

“Catelyn!”

For a moment she thought it was her septa calling again, but it was only Lysa.

“I'm fine!” she called back over her shoulder, even though the cry had sounded more like a reprimand than a voice of concern.

 _We'll be married tomorrow, separated the next day and he may die the next_ , thought Catelyn. If Lord Eddard Stark wanted to play in the river for ten minutes then Catelyn Tully was not going to be the one to say he couldn't.

Soon enough, the sun began to set and the four of them walked back to the castle together. Lysa and Lord Jon walked ahead arm in arm. Catelyn and Eddard brought up the rear, walking a fair distance apart but laughing as they recounted the battle. Catelyn was grateful to Lord Eddard for the unexpected moment of frivolity. It was the last thing she had expected that afternoon and exactly what she had needed. Lysa and Lord Jon, being clean, entered the castle through the main gate. Catelyn and Eddard slipped in quietly through the gatehouse.

Almost tiptoeing, Catelyn led Eddard through the side entrance to the kitchens, directing him to the staircase which, halfway up, divided into individual passages leading to the men's and ladies' baths. They climbed the stairs, stopping when they reached the fork.

“I hope you do not meet your septa up there my lady,” said Eddard.

“She's seen me looking a good deal muddier than this,” she grinned.

“Then I hope it is I who does not see her.”

They both laughed.

It was Catelyn who quickly became serious again.

“I hope you do not think less of me my lord, seeing me like this.”

“On the contrary,” said Lord Eddard Stark.

His expression remained steely as he looked at her for a time. Then his hand reached up, moving a strand of Catelyn's hair from her eye and tucking it behind her ear.

[To be continued]


	4. Lady Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wedding of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully - and of Jon Arryn and Lysa Tully

The wedding day was hectic, as all wedding days are.

Catelyn rose early. Before she left her bedchambers, she looked at herself in the glass, straightening her back and pulling up her chin in determination to do her father proud that day.

As she walked to the dining hall she could tell from the cacophony of voices that many others had also risen early. She broke her fast with Lord Hoster, Lysa and Edmure at their usual table, noticing that many other tables were quickly being filled. Lord Jon and Lord Eddard sat at one table with some men from the Vale, and there were another two tables of Winterfell men.

Catelyn's mind was full of all the things that needed to be done that day, and of everything that was expected of her. She must check that all was well in the kitchens, she must greet the early guests, and still leave time enough to dress herself, and to attend to Edmure and Lysa. She knew her handmaiden Nella would help her, but Catelyn still felt that there was an awful lot to do.

Even with so many things occupying her mind, she still could not rid herself of the thought that this wedding - these weddings - had been dreadfully rushed because of the impending war. She was also very aware that many of the guests' hearts would be hanging heavy in their chests at the recent loss of Lord Rickard and of his heir Brandon – the man who, until a few short weeks ago, they would have seen her marry.

Banners and sigils adorned the castle. Displayed alongside the Tully trouts and the moons of the Vale, was the Stark direwolf. Looking at the direwolf she couldn't help but be reminded of the seal upon Brandon's letters – the sigil was taunting her or testing her, she knew not which. As she sat breaking her fast, the direwolves seemed to wink at her, whispering “Brandon, Brandon, Brandon.” She tried to ignore them and to enjoy this meal with her family - her last as a maiden, but she was also eager to leave the table and begin her errands.

When she finally rose and left the table, she walked to the door that would take her to the kitchens. Lord Eddard rose from his table to greet her.

“Good morrow, my lady,” he said. “Is everything well?”

“Good morrow. my lord. Yes everything is in order. At least I hope it is,” she replied.

She smiled at him but was eager to get moving. Several times she glanced at the door.

“And you are well?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, my lord.”

“It seems we have been blessed with a sunny day.”

They were interrupted by a shout from the door.

“Cat!” said her Uncle Brynden, beaming. Brynden Tully strode into the room in his riding costume, sword slung across his back, lifting Catelyn off her feet and hugging her tightly.

"Oh uncle - you're here!" she cried, kissing his cheek. She could not disguise her delight at seeing him.

“Uncle, do you know Lord Stark?” she asked, looking at Lord Eddard.

“We have not met, it is my pleasure my lord. Brynden Tully,” said her uncle, introducing himself and holding out his hand.

“The pleasure is mine,” said Lord Eddard, shaking the hand that was offered.

Brynden swept Catelyn away as he went to greet Lord Hoster and his other niece and young nephew. Catelyn knew that the relationship between her father and her uncle was strained, but she was happier than she could say that he was there at Riverrun for her and Lysa on their wedding day.

After Catelyn had been to check that all was well in the kitchens, she set off to seek out Lysa. On her way to her sister's bedchambers, she heard shouts from the yard and discovered that Robert Baratheon had arrived with twenty of his men. There had been some question as to whether he would be able to attend, so his arrival caused a stir throughout the castle. He was considered to be one of the leaders if not 'the leader' of the rebellion, and so his name had been on everyone's lips for weeks. When she saw him Catelyn almost wished he had not come, for on his face hung a stern, angry expression. He was the very image of everything she didn't want the day to be about. She was, however, pleased to see that his arrival had put a broad smile on the face of her soon-to-be husband. Lord Eddard smiled all too infrequently, and Catelyn fervently hoped that this was due to his recent bereavement rather than a part of his regular demeanour.

“Lady Catelyn!” called Lord Eddard when he saw her standing in the doorway looking out into the yard.

He led Robert towards her and she walked to meet them.

“I am pleased to meet you my lady,” said Robert Baratheon, bending low and kissing her hand.

He looked at her, but it seemed to Catelyn that he appeared not to see her. It felt as though he was looking through her. She had heard he was a jolly man, but he appeared to be nothing of the sort. His eyes seemed to burn with a dark fire, and she was quite frightened of him.

“And you, my lord,” she replied, trying not to stare.

“Ned, be a good man and direct me to a bath – I feel as though I haven't been clean for a year. Excuse us, my lady.”

Lord Eddard nodded at her and then strode off with his friend, and she could hear them laughing and japing as they crossed the yard.

From the moment it had been planned, Catelyn had known that this would not be the happiest of weddings. She had spent a good deal of time worrying about how she was going to get through the day appearing neither too happy nor too morose. When the guests began to arrive, Catelyn had only to glance at them to realise that most of them were confronting the same problem. She seemed, however, to succeed in setting the right tone, having grown all too accustomed to coping with sad faces over the past weeks. She greeted Lady Whent, Lord Jonos and Lord Tytos and their families, all of whom seemed pleased to see her.

Soon, a flustered Nella sought her out and said it was time for her to dress.

“Your sister is all a-flutter wondering where you are, milady,” she said.

Catelyn followed her up the stairs - looking over her shoulder one last time at the entrance hall and the few rooms that she could see from her vantage point on the stairs. _Gods, I hope that nothing has been forgotten_ , she thought. _In any case, this will have to do._

She joined her sister and several handmaidens in Lysa's bedchambers. Catelyn helped Lysa into her gown, and Nella helped Catelyn with hers. Their gowns were newly made and exquisitely embroidered. The combination of the beautiful gowns and the large number of girls fussing about them caused Catelyn to become quite nervous herself. It was no wonder that Lysa was nervous, having spent the morning up here in this flurry of excitement.

The other girls fixed both her and Lysa's hair in intricate braids, which nearly drove Catelyn wild with impatience. When they were done, she hurried to find Edmure, who was having trouble doing up the buttons on his new vest.

“Come here,” she said, entering his bedchambers. “Stand still and let me fix that – you've got them all in the wrong holes!” she laughed.

“You look beautiful,” he said, as she kneeled to attend to his buttons.

“Thank you my darling,” she said. “And so do you.”

“I don't want to look beautiful!” he said, shocked. “Beautiful is for girls.”

She smiled, fixing his collar and then taking a brush to his hair.

“No,” he whined. “My hair is fine. Father says it looks all right.”

“Well I say it doesn't,” said Catelyn, brushing his auburn mop that was notoriously unruly.

When she had finished, she knelt again to give him a kiss, and he threw his arms around her neck and refused to let go for a minute or two.

“Run and find Father,” she said when he had eventually released his grasp. “It is nearly time for you to go to the sept.”

Catelyn hurried back to Lysa. She found her alone, the other girls having hurried away to fix their own gowns and hair.

“Why do you keep running off just when I need you!” cried her sister. “I think this braid is too loose.”

Catelyn sat Lysa down upon a stool, and added a few more pins to her hair.

“I will forget everything I am meant to say, I know I will,” said Lysa.

“All you need do is repeat what the septen says, sweet sister,” said Catelyn.

“I wish it was you who was going first,” complained Lysa.

“Well it's not,” said Catelyn. “You'll be fine,” she said, giving both of her sister's shoulders a squeeze.

Soon their father arrived to walk them to the sept. He kissed them in turn and it was clear to Catelyn that the emotion of the day was hanging heavy on Lord Hoster. They walked most of the way in silence, occasionally whispering such things as “Don't trip!” or “Is my hair all right?” until they entered the maids' room at the side of the sept. Their father left them then, and the two sisters sat in silence, Lysa biting her thumbnail nervously, Catelyn staring at her knees.

There was music being played inside the sept. Catelyn wished that it would never end and that she could just sit inside the maids' room forever. But the music did stop, and shortly afterwards the septen opened the door and led them out to join the men who would soon be their husbands.

The sept itself looked beautiful, bedecked with huge swathes of flowers and filled with people dressed in elegant costumes. They truly had been blessed with a sunny day and the room was awash with rainbow-coloured spears of light which reflected off the glass prisms that were hanging in the windows. Edmure looked like a proper little lord, and Catelyn saw that he was flushed with excitement as he turned around in his seat to stare at the guests.

Lord Jon was senior to Lord Eddard, so Lysa walked ahead of Catelyn. As instructed, Catelyn positioned herself to the left of Lord Eddard and raised her right hand so that he could grasp it with his left. The two couples faced the altar and took their lead from the septen, who was swinging an incense holder and speaking words which Catelyn found very difficult to focus upon. Catelyn usually loved the smell of the incense, but the septen was so close to them that it made her feel quite faint. She was grateful to Lord Eddard for maintaining his firm grasp of her hand and, although they did not look at each other, she held on to his hand quite fiercely.

Lysa had been worried about the vows, whereas Catelyn had been looking forward to them. She loved her gods, and thought it important that a bride remember her vows. However, when the time came for her to say them, Catelyn could not focus on them at all. Everything that Lysa and Lord Jon said, Catelyn and Eddard had been instructed to repeat, and this mindless repeating of words suddenly seemed to her to be very cold and soulless. She found herself willing the vows to end. She suddenly saw herself as a tiny playing piece in a giant game - and it made her feel numb.

But when it came time for her father to remove her and Lysa's maids' cloaks, Catelyn's eyes welled with tears. Her dear father had been so constant and so loving. This wedding most probably meant that she would soon have to leave him forever - and she would miss him with all her heart. And Edmure, the sweet boy she had raised - what would she do without him, and what would he do without her? Her father's eyes were moist as he removed her cloak and kissed her on the cheek.

Lord Hoster nodded at Lord Eddard, who seemed totally in command as he wrapped the grey direwolf cloak about her shoulders, the great white beast chasing its tail around her body. He moved to stand in front of her, fastening the hook under her chin. She watched his face as he did it. He was solemn, meticulous, unrushed. He did not look at her. In fact, he had not caught her eye once since they had been inside the sept.

It struck Catelyn that on official occasions Eddard Stark seemed to transform into a different man. His expression was steely and he seemed resigned to his duties, which he performed slowly and steadily, if not as confidently as Brandon would have. _Oh horror!_ _Don't think of Brandon!_   her mind screamed. She looked up at the paintings of the gods and shuddered, wondering what they would think of her. She looked up at Eddard guiltily as he kissed her hand. The septen said something and waved his incense. _It is done_ , she thought.

Lord Eddard Stark, now her husband, looked at her for the first time since that morning. His eyes were deep pools, unreadable, some might say expressionless, but she thought she could see something swirling in their depths. She longed to be able to read him better.

And then they were walking out of the glimmering sept, his hand on her back. People were clapping and smiling, although Catelyn noticed they were not clapping too loudly or smiling too widely. Eddard was nodding courteously at people, but Catelyn noticed that it was not exactly a smile that he had on his face. She dreaded to think what her own face looked like, for she felt like she was in shock. Her thoughts were racing. One moment her heart leaped for joy as she thought “ _I am Lady Stark!_ ” But then it lost balance “ _Not the Lady Stark you planned to be._ ” And then it hurtled downwards “ _What is to become of me?_ ”

Lysa and Lord Jon walked out into the garden and sat on a stone chair. Lord Eddard walked a little further off standing behind a blossom tree and facing away from the sept. She walked behind him and, when she reached the tree, she stood to face him.

“We have made it thus far, my lady,” he said quietly, looking at her with kind eyes.

But before she could say anything, the crowd descended upon them in a swirl of kissing and hugging and hand-shaking. Edmure hopped between the guests, and she was pleased to notice that, wherever he went, people seemed to be smiling and praising him. They stood in the garden for almost an hour, receiving congratulations, until the sun began to set. Catelyn felt quite exhausted as she took a moment to look up and watch the stream of guests making their way back to the castle to ready themselves for the feast.

“Will you accompany me back to the castle, my lady?” said her husband.

“Of course, my lord," she said, lifting up her skirts.

He put his hand on her back, and she shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No... Maybe a little,” she covered.

The Great Hall looked lovely, bedecked with flowers and bowls of fruit and colourful banners. Musicians were playing all manner of instruments and making merry next to the large space that had been set aside for dancing. As the newlyweds entered the room, the conversation in the room seemed to move up a pitch. Lord Hoster greeted them and escorted them to the dais.

Catelyn found the wedding feast as difficult to enjoy as the wedding ceremony. She had organised much of the evening's festivities herself and was desperately hoping nothing would go amiss. She was relieved to see that, despite her worries, the guests appeared to be enjoying themselves. She found it strange that any of them could find it within themselves to be merry at all. Most of the men in the room would ride to war tomorrow, and Catelyn was acutely aware that this fact was no cause for celebration. They would ride to war hoping to depose a cruel and bloodthirsty king whose family had held the Iron Throne for nearly 300 years. Catelyn wanted to stand on the table and cry out _Don't do it!_   She eyed Robert Baratheon closely, feeling that he was the one who had caused this war. But then maybe Brandon and Lord Rickard were as much to blame as Robert Baratheon. In any case, now was not the time to think of such things.

Lysa had taught Eddard a dance as she had promised. Catelyn had forgotten all about it when she noticed Lysa jump off the dais and weave her way around the room towards the musicians. She spoke to them for a while, looking up at Catelyn and Eddard with a grin on her face. After the first course, Lord Eddard cleared his throat.

“Will you dance, my lady?” he said, putting out his hand.

“Yes my lord,” she replied tentatively, taking his hand.

They walked to the dance floor and the musicians started to play an old tune – a favourite in The Riverlands. It seemed that Lord Eddard had been a willing student, because when they took to the floor he remembered all the steps, albeit he looked like he was being tortured. As they moved across the floor, he looked either at his feet or over her shoulders, but never into her eyes. At first, Catelyn tried to lead him, thinking that he needed a little encouragement to loosen up; but that seemed to confound him, so she quickly stopped. Lord Jon and Lysa's dance which followed was far more relaxed and lively, much as Catelyn had expected.

Back on the dais Catelyn felt awkward and exposed. Her father sat in the centre of the long table, with his daughters on either side of him and their new husbands next to them. Brynden and Edmure sat below on a table with the Whents, and the Brackens and the Blackwoods were seated at tables behind them. Tables of other Stark, Tully and Vale bannermen were spread all around.

Catelyn dared not look out at the guests. She felt like everyone was watching her and Eddard, and she imagined that they were eager to pass judgement on the dynamic between them. She was doubly uncomfortable about this because it seemed that ever since they had entered the Great Hall, they had been avoiding each other's gaze. Catelyn focused her attention alternately on the dance floor and on her dinner plate, and her husband seemed content with that. Much to her relief, her father made a great effort to engage Eddard in conversation, although she noticed that their exchanges were somewhat forced. Occasionally she added information or asked questions, to keep the conversation moving along. Between courses she took herself off to circulate around the room, feeling much more at ease away from Lord Eddard. The guests were beginning to get rowdy, thanks to the fine Dornish wine, and she heard the names Brandon, Lord Rickard and King Aerys spoken many times in the room. Catelyn had drunk only one small cup of wine herself, but she noticed most of the guests being much more liberal with their refreshments. Lysa had drunk at least two cups, despite Catelyn's previous warnings.

As the evening wore on, Catelyn was asked to dance by a few old friends and the lively music eventually brought a smile to her face. At one point she caught Lord Eddard looking at her as she danced and she felt guilty, deciding to rejoin him on the dais immediately. But when that dance finished, she found Robert Baratheon standing in front of her with his hand out. She looked up at Eddard - who smiled, so she took Robert's hand and he spun her around the floor roaring with laughter. The wine had cheered him up no end, she noticed. When the dance ended he kissed her not on the hand, but on the cheek, saying “Damn but that Ned is a lucky man.”

 _Not too lucky recently_ , she thought - but didn't say it.

“And you are a lucky woman Lady Catelyn,” he continued, escorting her back to the dais. “You won't find a better man than Eddard Stark, not anywhere.”

They reached the dais and Robert continued loudly.

“Of course he can't dance to save his life,” he said, laughing.

Eddard looked down at his feet and chuckled.

“Come on man, you looked like the walking dead on that dance floor earlier. Stand up and show this beautiful creature you're a man and not a tree,” said Robert boisterously.

He hoisted Eddard to his feet, and then pushed them both in the direction of the dance floor.

“Listen now," he continued. "This is a gentle tune if ever I heard one - if you can't dance to this I'll be damned!” he roared, taking a large sip of wine, and turning around to find himself a maiden to dance with.

Catelyn stood facing her husband and they looked at each other awkwardly, and then they laughed. He took her hand and put his other hand behind her back, and she found - to her great relief - that he was now much more relaxed than he had been earlier. Maybe the wine had helped him. She said a silent thank you to Robert Baratheon. Catelyn herself felt more relaxed now that there were so many other couples dancing alongside them - and those guests still seated at their tables seemed to be more interested in their wine cups than in what was happening on the dance floor. The musicians were playing a pretty tune, and Eddard seemed far more confident on his feet as he held her in his firm grip and moved her about the floor. They looked into each other's eyes as they danced, and she realised that this was the longest she had ever been in his arms. Suddenly her cheeks turned red at the thought of what would soon happen, and it was she who fumbled her steps. When the music stopped and the musicians began playing another tune, they stood in each others arms for a few moments holding their gaze. Her eyes were full of fear and pent-up emotion, his were full of kindness and grief. Catelyn felt as though her cheeks were on fire. Without speaking, she broke their embrace and walked back towards the dais. He followed. He did not touch her, but she was keenly aware of his presence behind her.

When the final course was finished, and the final song was sung, the cry went up for the bedding. Catelyn's heart missed a beat, the evening had gone so fast. _Can it really be that time already?_   She and Eddard were to share the bedchambers that her parents had shared on their own wedding night, a fact that offered some, if little, comfort to Catelyn as she prepared herself for the next few hours and the ordeal she had been dreading.

“Which fish will spawn first?” a woman's voice shouted.

“I've heard Stark's cock is stiff as ice,” shouted Ser Desmond Grell.

“I've heard Arryn's cock is the shape of the Eyrie – the little lady had better hope it's not so big,” shouted one of the Blackwoods.

Sitting between her father and her husband, Catelyn was mortified at the thought of what would happen next. She looked at her father, but Lord Hoster was looking firmly away from both his daughters, focused intently upon something across the other side of the room. Catelyn noticed he was clenching his teeth.

Having received no encouragement from her father, Catelyn made a small movement to glance up at her husband out of the corner of her eye. He must have been looking at her, for instantly his hand was squeezing hers tightly under the table. Moments later he was pulled away by a mass of screaming women, and Catelyn noticed that there were many more women grabbing at Lord Eddard than at Lord Jon.

And then suddenly Catelyn herself was being carried away by a dozen men all trying to tear off her clothes. Her last vision of the banquet hall was of Edmure looking at her worriedly and Uncle Brynden resting his hand on his nephew's shoulder. All the way to the bedchambers she was clawed at, ripped at and shouted at. She knew it was all in jest, but it felt extremely unpleasant. When Jory Cassell tore open the front of her beautiful gown she wanted to cry. As she was carried up the stairs, feeling like she was being ripped limb from limb, she wondered for a moment where Lord Eddard was. She soon forgot him when someone pulled her slip down to expose her breasts.

She had never liked beddings. She didn't find them funny - particularly not, she discovered, when they were happening to her. She didn't want any man looking at her bare breasts (including, she had to admit, Lord Eddard) let alone making lewd comments about them. But it was clear that a lady's wishes were not to be heeded during this particular wedding ritual. Ser Desmond was positively hateful with his bawdy talk and cruel jokes. When they reached the open door of the bedchambers, Lord Dustin ripped off her last undergarment and pushed her into the room towards an object which she soon realised was her naked husband. The door slammed shut, muffling the shouts and japes and crude noises that continued in the hall.

All her resolve and courage dissolved away when she saw Lord Eddard standing there naked. He stood much the same as he always stood, looking at her with concern. She stood covering her breasts and bending over a little, shaking and looking everywhere but at at him. He took a step towards her, seeming worried that she was not her usual composed self. She was worried about the same thing.

“My lady, are you well?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly, a quaver in her voice that she wished would go away.

He stepped closer again and put his hands on her bare arms. Although they were warm, she inhaled sharply at his touch as though his hands were made of ice.

“Are you hurt?” he asked gently.

“No,” - again the quaver.

He raised a hand to her cheek and brushed the side of her face with the back of his hand.

“We need not do this now my lady, if you do not wish.”

“Do you not want to?” she asked, looking at the floor.

“Not if you do not want to,” he said.

“Do you not desire me my lord?” she said looking up and finding his eyes fixed upon hers. It was his turn for a sharp intake of breath.

“My lady, I do desire you,” he said. Was that a quaver she heard in his voice now?

“Then I think we ought to do this now,” she said matter-of-factly, staring at his chest.

He waited a moment, then bent down and brushed his lips over her closed mouth. He kissed her cheek. Then he kissed her closed lips, moving his hands to the small of her back and pulling her hips closer to him. She looked up tentatively, opening her mouth to kiss him, and suddenly she was in his arms and he was carrying her to the bed.

He was strong and she felt astonishingly weak. Weaker than she had ever felt. Nerves had turned her to jelly. He was holding her and kissing her hard and all she was doing was resting her limp hands behind his neck. He laid her on the bed and lay half on top of her, one leg between her legs. Her heart was fluttering apace. He stopped suddenly.

“Are you well my lady?” he said again, inches from her face.

“Yes,” she managed to say.

“I do not want to hurt you Catelyn,” he said thickly.

Her eyes were wide. He moved a hand down her stomach to between her legs, one finger finding its way almost inside her and rubbing there while he kissed her.

“My lord!” she exclaimed in surprise, breathless again, moving away from his hand.

“This will make it easier Catelyn. Let me...”

 _I must do as he says_. _I must trust him_ , she thought, remembering her conversation with Lysa. But it felt wrong.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “This will help, but you must relax.”

But closing her eyes made Catelyn less relaxed and far more afraid.

“Please my lord I can't. Don't you need to...”

He kissed her and appeased her by moving his hand away, using it instead to bend one of her legs upwards before moving his whole body on top of her. She inhaled heavily, shaking again in spite of herself. He moved his hand back between her legs and gently put a finger inside her.

“Ohhww,” she sobbed. His finger seemed huge. It hurt. The pain wasn't severe but it was pain and it scared her. _If this is his finger..._

“I will not hurt you Catelyn,” he said again, sounding worried himself.

“I think you have no choice but to hurt me my lord,” she said as calmly as she could, determined to bear the ordeal and not to cry or make a sound at all. “I will be all right, just do what you need... want... to do.”

She moved her own hand downwards blindly, wanting to understand what was going on. She brushed against something with her hand and she heard him inhale and felt his whole body flinch. He kissed her mouth, and she felt him position himself between her legs. Kissing her on her forehead and then her cheek, he gently pushed inside her.

Her face burned. Her whole body burned. She had not anticipated the discomfort and was shocked and angry with herself.

“Is it done?” she asked urgently.

“No,” he replied guiltily. “Not yet.”

She whimpered, incredulous.

“I will do it quickly, perhaps that is best,” he said.

“Yes, do it quickly,” she said breathlessly, turning her face away from him.

He pushed further into her, and then further still, gently but uncompromisingly. She cried out. The pain was intense. Never in her wildest imaginings would she have guessed at this feeling, this pain and strangeness. For that moment she hated him, she wanted to push him away and run to her father and cry in his arms, to make him punish this strange man for hurting her so. But then that thought was over and the pain was subsiding although he was still inside her, holding her, not moving. And then she was crying in his arms and he was kissing away her tears. Soon she realised there was blood everywhere.

“I'm bleeding. Please I must fetch some water.”

She ran to the bathchamber, blood dripping across the floor, and shut the door. She tried to staunch the bleeding with cloths and water and then knelt on the floor and continued her crying silently. She thought of her mother, her sister, her father, Edmure, of Brandon, of this man Eddard Stark who was now her husband. And then she realised that the ordeal was not yet over. His duties this night were not yet done. She stood up straight and opened the door quickly, thinking to run to the bed and climb under the sheets. But he was standing at the door.

“My lady, are you well?” he asked for the third time that night.

“Yes. Thank you for your patience my lord.”

 _He is most certainly patient, thank the gods_ , she thought.

He helped her into the bed and climbed in himself from the other side. She lay on her back, motionless. He wrapped an arm over her stomach and this intensified the throbbing she felt inside her.

“I am all right now,” she lied.

“I'm sorry I hurt you,” he whispered, kissing her gently.

She moved closer to him, moving her leg up the bed as he had done earlier, wanting to get it over with.

He gently positioned himself over her. He moved inside her a little way, then kissed her and moved her leg back down the bed so both her legs were more or less straight.

“That should help the pain a little,” he said.

He started to move inside her and out again, then again and again, using gentle rhythmic strokes. He sensed her tensing, so he kissed her tear-stained cheek and spoke to her softly.

“If you relax it won't hurt so much.”

She found it almost impossible to relax, but when he kissed her the pain seemed to ease. In the end she only had to lie there for a minute or two as it didn't take him long to finish. He cried out “Catelyn” on his last thrust and kissed her neck, burying his head in her long hair. She could feel his seed inside her, and that comforted her more than she could say.

 _That is what all this is for. Please gods let it quicken inside me. I want to be a good wife, I want to be a good mother._ She prayed to The Mother there and then with her husband lying asleep on top of her, his head in her hair. Soon he woke up and rolled off her, curving his arm around her and drawing her to him.

“Thank you my lady,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You are very brave.”

“I don't feel at all brave,” she said wearily.

“You are,” he murmured, kissing her forehead.

She rolled over, lying in front of him with her back to him but he held her close, his arm across her stomach. She was uncomfortable and her heart was still racing from the pain and fear. She rolled over again, resting her head on his shoulder and her arm on his chest. And that is where she found herself when she woke the next morning, her husband looking at her with his dark expressionless eyes, his arm tight about her waist.

[To be continued]


	5. Waiting

When Catelyn awoke in his arms, Eddard was staring at her from such close proximity that she instinctively jerked her head back. He released his hold of her, looking somewhat startled himself.

Not knowing what else to do Catelyn sat up in the bed, tucking the bedcover firmly under her arms to cover her nakedness and turning to face him so that he could not see her bare back.

“Good morrow, my lady,” he said gravely. He had said the exact same words to her the previous morning, but that could have been a million years ago the greeting seemed so very different now.

“Good morrow, my lord,” she replied, looking at him shyly as he raised himself up in the bed.

They sat there for some time, side by side, in silence. He and Lord Jon and their party of riders were to leave at first light, but it was yet dark. Candles that had been sleek and new the night before flickered around the walls and above the hearth looking dishevelled and sad, weeping their wax like tears.

Catelyn sensed that her husband's mood was sombre, and the ongoing silence proved that he was even less talkative than usual. She started to worry that she had done something wrong.

She guessed that he had found the events of the previous night very trying. And who could blame him? When he had called her brave, mayhaps he had merely been observing courtesy - or worse, mocking her. Last night she had been stupidly emotional and now she felt like a fool. She chided herself. _I shouldn't have had even that small cup of wine!_ And she wished to the gods she had not cried. _Maidens have coped with being deflowered for many years and will continue to cope for many years to come._

She wondered how Lysa had fared. But there would be time to talk to her later.

_War! It is war. I am married. I am Lady Stark. Brandon is dead. Will I like Winterfell? Will I ever see it? Will Eddard be killed? Will Father be killed? Robert Baratheon? Lord Jon? Will they be captured? Tortured? What of King Aerys? Prince Rhaegar? When will it be light? Will I bear him a child?_

Many thoughts fought for dominance in Catelyn's mind but, distracted by the thumping in her ribcage, she could focus on none of them. The silence in the room made her want to scream. _Say something! Surely I can think of something to say..._ But the things she dared say seemed so inconsequential that she kept her silence. And she hated herself for it. _A good wife would know what to say. Does he expect me to say something? Am I disappointing him?_

After a time, she saw Eddard glance up at the window. The smallest hint of light was tainting the darkness outside. She looked at him then, full of trepidation, and he caught her eye and smiled a rueful smile. He took in a sharp breath, then lifted the bedcover and rose from the bed, walking purposefully towards the dresser.

She turned her head sharply away from his nakedness, remembering with shame the horrors of the night before. As he dressed, she dared to slip from the bed and quickly wrap herself in a night robe that was lying ready on the chair.

"Is there anything I can do to help you, my lord?" she asked.

"No, nothing," he replied without looking up from his dressing. "Thank you."

While her husband packed away his belongings in the wardrobe and prepared the saddlebags that he would take with him to war, Catelyn quietly stole from the room. She hurried to her own bedchambers to dress, returning to her husband a short time later. Eddard had finished packing and was watching the sun rise over the Red Fork. He heard her now-slippered footsteps and turned at the sound. His face was so stern that she stopped still in the doorway. But his face soon softened and she took a step towards him.

“My lord, I wanted you to have something of mine,” she said.

Catelyn heard her own voice and thought it sounded very small. She rolled a pewter object in her hands. It was a small ornamental box in the shape of a fish.

“My uncle gave me this when I was a girl," she continued, making a conscious effort to sound more like her normal self.

"He told me it was lucky. I don't know about that, but I always found it useful. I would take it with me whenever I went travelling."

Eddard looked at her but said nothing. Catelyn raised her eyebrows.

"It's handy for storing small, important things - you know. It has a seal so it keeps things dry." She was rushing her words now.

She paused. "You think me silly,” she said more slowly, looking up at him.

Lord Eddard Stark took a step towards his wife. “I do not think you silly," he said, almost scoffing.

He sighed and shook his head apologetically, as if to bring himself into the here and now.

"I will treasure it and keep it safe,” he said.

The tips of his fingers brushed the palm of her hand as he accepted the gift.

“You'll keep yourself safe too I hope?” said Catelyn in the small voice again.

“I will try,” he said darkly.

He paused, looking her up and down.

“Might I..." he began, then hesitated. "Now you will think me silly. But might I have a lock of your hair to put inside this lucky box? I have a feeling that might bring me some luck too,” he said, looking at her with steely eyes.

“Yes, of course my lord,” said Catelyn, surprised but pleased.

Eddard drew a small knife from his belt. They each took an awkward step towards each other. He took hold of a length of hair on one side of her head, reaching behind her neck with his other hand to pull the rest of her hair to the other side. She stopped breathing for a moment. She turned her head away from him and felt him carefully cut through the small lock of hair. Close to her ear, the sharp knife made a crackling sound as it cut. As he worked the knife she could feel his breath warm upon her neck, and she felt her skin tingle from somewhere behind her knees all the way to the top of her head.

She watched him put the lock of auburn hair in the box, then put the box in the front pocket of his doublet. He gave it a pat, and gave her a smile, taking her hands in his.

“Thank you my lady,” he said softly, taking her in his arms to kiss her.

But the kiss was not to be. Catelyn had left the door ajar and Rodrik Cassell now knocked on it loudly.

“My lord!" he boomed, entering the room.

Eddard and Catelyn quickly moved away from each other.

“My lord, we are all but ready,” said Rodrik, entering the room. “My lady, forgive me, but we must make all haste”.

Catelyn led the way down to the courtyard, Rodrik and Lord Eddard opening doors for her as she went. When she saw Lysa at the bottom of the stairs, Catelyn put her arms about her sister and gave her a kiss and a squeeze.

“Are you well, sweet sister?” asked Catelyn.

“Quite well,” said Lysa with wide eyes and a glimmer of a smile.

“I am glad,” said Catelyn as she took her sister's hand and they made their way outside.

Catelyn and Lysa lined up beside their father and brother to say goodbye to their new husbands, and many other men besides. Robert Baratheon cut a striking figure high atop his black horse. Catelyn thought he looked surprisingly well considering his excesses of the night before. His brow was furrowed, but his eyes were bright and his cheeks were red. It was clear that he and many of the other men already on horseback were eager to be away.

Lord Jon came first down the line shaking hands first with Lord Hoster, then with Edmure, then kissing his wife on one cheek before bowing and kissing her hand. Lord Jon kissed Catelyn on the hand too, looking at her with kind eyes.

“I trust you will take care of my wife, my lady?” he said.

“I will gladly my lord,” she replied, bowing her head and trying to smile.

And then she saw Lord Eddard jogging towards them from the direction of the armoury. He looked flustered, aware that most of the men were waiting impatiently in their saddles. He shook Lord Hoster's hand, hastily clapped Edmure on the arm a few times, kissed Lysa's hand and then stood before Catelyn, laying his hands on her arms. She thought for a moment that he would kiss her forehead but then he seemed to think better of it, bowing self-consciously and kissing her hand instead.

As soon as he had stood up, Catelyn took both his hands in hers.

“Be safe my lord,” she whispered.

And then, in front of all of Riverrun, she put her arms about his neck and kissed him on the lips quickly and forcefully. His large hands moved to her waist and then further encircled her, pressing into the small of her back, pulling her close. When she stepped away from him, her cheeks were flushed. Eddard looked at his feet and moved quickly to his horse. But as they all rode off, he turned his horse to look at her once more.

When the last rider had passed through the castle gates, Catelyn ran up the many flights of stairs to her father's solar in order to gaze out at them as they rode away into the distance. The view was so good that she was able to watch them for a long time. She could still see them, and make out the figure of her husband on his fine grey horse, when her father entered the room having climbed the stairs himself.

He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “I am proud of you, my little Cat," he said. "And you seem to be quite fond of that husband of yours, which pleases me greatly."

Through the corner of her eye Catelyn could see her father looking at her, but she maintained her focus on the riders in the distance. Tomorrow, Lord Hoster would also ride to the war with an army of his own.

"He is courageous on the battlefield," he continued. "Of that there is no doubt."  Lord Hoster cleared his throat. "However, I can't help but think him a rather cold character.”

“He is of the north father," Catelyn replied quickly. "He is not cold - just quiet and determined.”

“You sound like a Stark already my Cat.”

She turned sharply to look at her father. When she saw his wistful smile and sparkling eyes, she responded with a tentative smile of her own. When she turned back to the window she could no longer make out the figure of her husband nor even be sure that what she was looking at was the riders at all. She felt a stab of pain in her stomach - some cramp or other. And then she blushed.

The memory of his hands on her back during that last quick embrace burned into her skin for months, as if to remind her that she may never feel them again. At first, Catelyn responded to the thought with indifference. The wedding and, indeed the entire time she had known Eddard Stark, seemed to have passed as a dream. He was a blur, a vision. A song. _Did any of it actually happen?_ But as the child grew inside her she found herself wanting those hands more and more.

[To be continued]


	6. Honour Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These next chapters will tell the story from Eddard's perspective. Comments gratefully received.

Eddard had never liked travelling. He didn't like surprises. But he knew his duty and he did not balk at it now - especially not now. The thought of Lyanna spurred him onwards, calm and steady.

He knew his face looked drawn. He could feel it in the muscles around his cheekbones. His face felt white, bloodless - it had felt like this ever since he left The Vale.  
  
The news of his father's and brother's deaths had not come as a surprise to Eddard. He had dreaded it, expected it. What he hadn't expected was the macabre manner in which they had been killed. On the evening that the raven had arrived bearing the horrific news, Jon Arryn had entered his bedchambers and Eddard had known from the look on his face what words the bird had brought.

 _Dark wings, dark words._  
  
Weeks before, another raven had brought the piece of news that had begun the whole nightmare. His sister had been kidnapped. His father and brother were riding south to find her. Eddard had felt helpless. And in all the years he had known Robert Baratheon, Eddard had never seen him as angry as he had been that day.

He knew with what passion Robert loved his sister – or thought he loved her. Robert had been angry when Prince Rhaegar had crowned Lyanna as Queen of Love and Beauty at the tourney at Harrenhal the previous year, but this was even worse. Eddard wished to the gods that his sister had never caught the eye of the young prince. In another time and place the pairing might not have been so bad - Eddard had always had respect for Rhaegar Targaryen and he had a mind that Lyanna had felt the same. But Rhaegar was married, and Lyanna was betrothed to Robert – so it could never be. Robert had raged for hours, pacing in circles around Eddard, thumping walls with his fists.

“She is your sister! What in seven hells are you doing man? Do you not care? Gods! That Targaryen scum! He is mocking me. She is mine! I will kill him! I will kill them all. She is mine!”  
  
And yet Eddard had felt that Lyanna was more his than Robert's. He and his sister were very close despite having been separated for some years, Eddard having been sent to The Vale as a ward of Jon Arryn while Lyanna remained at Winterfell. _Sweet, wild Lyanna – with her dark hair and pale skin and red lips._ Her vivacity, her fluidity embodied everything that Eddard himself was not. And yet she had always understood him better than Brandon had. Eddard felt as though he belonged with her in the same way that night belonged with day – you could not have one without the other. He could not say if she felt the same, but he liked to think that she did. She was cleverer than he, more scheming, more emotional like Brandon. Eddard was the calm and steady one - the one who used his mind first and his heart second.

There had been much idle talk since the tournament at Harrenhal and it was now common knowledge that Prince Rhaegar had been smitten with his sister. Lyanna had once swooned at the sight of Robert Baratheon, but after the jealous rage took hold of him at Harrenhal, she had become disquieted. The words she had confided in Eddard then now came back to him, and he repeated them over and over in his mind.

“Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature,” she had said darkly.

In the year since then, Eddard had not told Robert of her words and neither had he seen Lyanna to mention them to her. What exactly had happened at Winterfell? Had Lyanna truly been kidnapped? Where was she now? What was she feeling?

Eddard longed to see her, to speak with her or, if not to her, to Benjen and all the others at Winterfell. What would Maester Luwin tell him of what had come to pass? What would Rodrik Cassell say? Or Jory? What could Benjen tell him?

Eddard had resolved to make the long and dangerous journey back to Winterfell. He wanted to know what had happened, to see Winterfell, to feel it breathe. And as much as he disliked to do so, he knew he must raise his father's bannermen. Benjen, young as he was, had been left as the Stark in Winterfell, and Eddard hoped that he had enough sense to begin the process of calling the banners. But he could only hope, for it was far too dangerous to send a raven now.

Robert had ridden south to find Lyanna. Eddard had longed to go with him, but Lord Jon had advised him against it. King Aerys was now demanding his and Robert's heads and because of this, Jon Arryn had rallied his own bannermen in The Vale against the king. Eddard had no choice. He knew he had to rally his father's bannermen in the north – they were his own bannermen now. Eddard didn't like travelling at the best of times, but he had steeled himself and prepared for his journey with a heavy heart.  
  
And so Eddard had set off from The Eyrie bound for Old Anchor. If anyone was sworn to Lord Arryn it was the Melcolms, so he was confident he would be safe in that old town. He travelled alone, convincing Jon Arryn that he would make quicker ground and rouse less suspicion without a riding companion. Upon reaching the township, Eddard had befriended an elderly fisherman and his young daughter. He had lied to them, telling them he was a sellsword, but had quickly established that they were loyal to both Lord Melcolm and to Lord Arryn. From Old Anchor they had sailed for White Harbour, the seat of his father's - his - bannermen the Manderlys. From there, Eddard was confident that he could find safe passage up the banks of the White Knife and then across to Winterfell. _Home!_  
  
The winds had been gusting as they set sail just after dark. They had pushed off from a secluded spot north of the main port. The old man was dishevelled and smelled of the sea. The girl was a deft sailor, and when she smiled her eyes flashed. There were rips and holes in her outer garments. Her hair fell heavy in thick matted locks that were not unbecoming to Lord Eddard Stark, and there were seashells tied into the strands about her face. Something about the father and daughter had made him trust them both implicitly.

“If the gods be good, the winds will quieten themselves,” the fisherman had said. "I've seen them like this many a time before."

But the winds had not quietened themselves – and the storm had swirled about them unrelentingly. The boat had creaked and groaned, and the girl had screamed at Eddard to crouch down low and stay still as she and her father moved from side to side trying to keep the vessel afloat. But one wave proved too much for the old boat. As it split in two, Eddard had seen the mast crash down upon the fisherman's head. The girl had shown great courage swimming out to Eddard and bringing with her a thick piece of wood that they both could cling to. The wind created such spray across the water that they could see nothing, and all Eddard could hear was the wind which muffled all other sound. It was all they could do to stay afloat and try to breathe in enough air to keep breathing. Like everything else, the air seemed to be filled with water. Eddard found it difficult to open his eyes, let alone see anything.

When the storm let up a little they could make out the figure of the fisherman floating, face down, some way off in the distance. The girl cried out and started to swim towards him, but the body was quickly carried further away from them. Soon she stopped swimming, stricken with grief. As Eddard swam towards her, he thought of his own father, and was grateful for the time he had spent swimming in the hot springs at Winterfell. He reflected that had his father not taught him to swim, he may well have been a drowned man too by now.

The girl had an uncanny knack of knowing exactly where they were, and when the storm passed she saw them safely to shore on what she told him was the island of Sweetsister. His face had remained white as he stood dripping on the shore holding the sobbing girl to his chest. They had found an inn and pretended to be husband and wife. He had comforted her as best he could, obtaining some dry clothes for her from the innkeeper, then wrapping her in a blanket and holding her to him throughout that night, as he listened to the thunder rumbling around them and to the rain lashing against the old rattling windows.

Eddard could not sleep for thinking about what was to come next. He must get to White Harbour. Lord Borrell was at Sweetsister but he knew not where his allegiances lay - dare he contact him? Or could he find another boat that could take him to White Harbour? The girl might be able to help. Then he had to get to Winterfell. After that, he had to find his way to the Tully castle at Riverrun.

The message that Lord Hoster's raven had brought had been clear – the wedding must come before the warring. And thus, very soon, it would be a wife he was holding to him - the girl who was to have been Brandon's. And it wasn't only the girl that he was to have. The title and the responsibility that had been Brandon's were now his. He had never wanted, expected or prepared to be Lord of Winterfell. _How did this happen?_  
  
Brandon had shown Eddard the Tully girl's letters - her words of love. He had bragged and joked about them. Eddard had been thankful that the letters hadn't been for him. He would not have had the first idea of how to respond to a lady's fancies. He could not write like Brandon. He found it hard to put into words even the thoughts that were familiar to him, let alone thoughts that were entirely foreign such as how to deal with ladies.

He had been with women, but only with the help of Brandon and Robert. Eddard had no interest in involving himself in any way with anyone, least of all a girl, and was quite content to tend to himself. There had been one or two women he had felt something for – an attraction, a desire to possess them. But he had quickly dismissed these fancies, assuming that the women would not desire him. After all, it was Brandon and Robert who always got the girls.  
  
“There are plenty to go around, Ned,” his brother had said to him on more than one occasion. “Take her, if you want her.”

 _But what if she doesn't want me?_   Eddard had thought but never asked, afraid of the answer.

He loved Brandon, but on many points he disagreed with him. Often Eddard would be angered by his brother's tendency to exaggerate or embellish a story. But then, Robert was the same. He also felt that sometimes Brandon had been far too arrogant for his own good. _But maybe that is what a son and heir should be._

Perhaps he had merely been jealous of his brother's ease in all manner of company, and his ability to inspire girls like Catelyn Tully to swoon at his every word. Eddard was stoicly content to be quite the opposite – the other brother who was quiet, steady, kind. The Stark family needed a calming influence and he filled the place admirably. Eddard would always do whatever he was asked: whatever his father wished, whatever his brothers and sister wished, whatever Robert wished, whatever Lord Jon wished. If a task became difficult, he would never give up. That was the way he had always been, that was his niche. Now he felt lost without them.

_What am I to do?_

He had rarely needed to make decisions. He had always done what was best based on what everyone else wanted and what his duty dictated. Now duty dictated that he must marry a girl he had never met.

Brandon had boasted of her beauty often enough, but what was she like? _Does she have kind eyes? Is she clever, or silly like most of the Vale girls?_   After studying the girls at The Eyrie, Eddard had begun to think that he would do well with a less attractive, wittier woman. The thought seemed sensible, but at dances it was always the most beautiful women that left him in awe - the ones who pointed their toes prettily and flashed their eyes and flicked their hair.

Would Catelyn Tully ever feel for him as she had for Brandon? He remembered her words as he had seen them written neatly across countless pages. “My love ... my love.” The words were foreign to Eddard. They were meant for others, not for him.  
  
He looked down at his forearms, one of which was wrapped about the fisherman's daughter. They were skinnier than Brandon's. He had almost made up his mind to take The Black after Brandon's wedding to Catelyn Tully. He had even spoken to his father about it, who had approved of his decision. But now the whole world had changed - the wedding that would join the houses of Tully and Stark was to be his own wedding, and he must put aside any thought of Castle Black. He knew it was what his father would have wished. In his life's plan he had never factored in a romantic relationship, although he had always thought that if he were ever to have a wife that he would want to be a good husband. _But not to a silly girl._ He had to concede that the notion of a wife warming his bed at night, waiting for him, was not entirely unwelcome. He had never been good at charming ladies, and here he was being given one rather conveniently. But he could not bear a silly girl – especially not now. What had Brandon said about her? He tried hard to remember. She was beautiful. She had long fingers and a tiny waist. She was graceful. Eddard was frustrated that could not remember Brandon saying anything at all about what she was really like.

As he tightened his hold about the fisher girl's shoulders, he decided that if she should stir and make a gesture of encouragement that he would take her there and then. He had very little time now during which he could have any woman he wanted. But she did not stir, so he lay there imagining how it would feel to be responsible for a lady wife. _I want to be a fair husband. I will be faithful to her. I will share everything with her. But Gods let her have some wits about her._

Brandon had rarely been attracted to clever women. He liked to be in charge, whereas Eddard preferred to let others take the lead wherever possible. He thought of Lyanna, who had always been the ringleader of their childhood games. She was forever telling him where they would go that day, what games they would play, what he should wear. Most times he would obey without question.

 _Gods Lyanna, where are you?_ \- _She is but a girl!_  
  
Guiltily, Eddard's thoughts turned from his own plight to that of his sister's. Had she truly been kidnapped? Was there really to be a war over his own sister? How she would scoff at the thought! He thought of her dark hair and pale white skin, her iron will, her joy of life, her fiery temper.

"Lyanna is a Stark of old," their father had often said. "She has the wolfsblood in her veins."

Ned was happy to be surrounded by wolves, but he had always known that he was more cautious than his siblings. He felt himself lacking in fire and passion. And for this reason, the young Eddard had spent many hours wondering if his father was disappointed in him.

_But that's over now._

He took a deep breath.  
  
The fisherman's daughter moved to lay a hand across his chest. She made a little noise and opened her eyes. He could see her pain and loneliness and he felt sorry for her. She ran her hand across his face in a way that told him she was not a stranger to men. He kissed her. The sight of her nipples through her shift encouraged him further and he moved to lie on top of her.  
  
Eddard Stark was self-aware enough to know that he was a gentle man. The women he had been with had all given him the impression that they were surprised in some way. Whether they were expressing disappointment or relief he was not certain, but at least they were calm. What would the Lady Catelyn be like? This fisher girl he now held to him had clearly known a few men in her time, but she cried out and shook as he spilled his seed into her. He held her close, wondering how the Tully girl would feel in his arms.  
  
They were awoken at first light by men demanding he meet with Lord Borrell. Eddard recognised one of the men as Lord Borrell's son Godric. He was a huge man with broad shoulders and a bulbous nose, and the middle fingers on both of his hands were webbed like some ancient sea creature. He reminded Eddard of an ogre from one of Old Nan's stories - he was balding, with thick white hairs growing at strange angles from his face and neck. Despite Godric's fearsome appearance, Eddard knew that Jon Arryn would trust him with his life.

Eddard was forced to leave the fisher girl at the inn and follow Godric and the other men. Before he left, Eddard squeezed the girl's arm and handed her a purse full of coins. Godric raised his eyebrows at this, which brought a fleeting redness to Eddard's expressionless white face.

"For your loss," he said quietly, squeezing her arm again.

Godric led Eddard out to the stables where a horse was waiting for him. He was instructed to follow the men as they navigated themselves to a dense wood on the outskirts of the town. When they reached a small stone building, Godric gave the call for them to dismount. Inside, Eddard found Lord Borrell standing in a small circle with some other men. As he entered they all turned to look at him with caution and, so Eddard sensed, no small amount of fear.

"My lord," Eddard said, bowing to Lord Borrell. "I am sorry to endanger your fair isle by coming here, but the storm forced me to land." He paused. No one spoke.

"It is an honour to meet you at last," Eddard continued, searching for the right words. "Lord Arryn has oft spoken of your kindness."

"I thank you for your pleasantries Lord Stark. I am deeply sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man..." Lord Borrell's sentence tapered off, and several of his men shuffled and grunted and bowed their heads low.

"Indeed you coming here is a risky business, but sooner or later we must all decide upon whose side we stand. Where are you destined, Lord Stark?"

"Winterfell," Eddard replied with determination.

Lord Borrell looked at Godric, and then at the other men.

"We suspected as much. I would warn you my lord, there are Targaryen men all about." He paused again. Eddard held his breath.

"I will find you safe passage to White Harbour," Lord Borrell said gravely. “But remember - if you lose, you were never here.”

Eddard shook all the men's hands in relief. Lord Borrell introduced him to two of his men who would sail him to White Harbour. And so it was that at last light, Eddard pushed off from the island of Sweetsister and back into waters of The Bite. The boat Lord Borrell had provided was a good deal more stable than the last one he had travelled in, and Lord Borrell's men were clearly able seamen. As they sailed up The Bite, hugging the shoreline, Eddard thought he felt something like elation - which could just as easily have been fear. He knew not what enemies loyal to King Aerys he might meet on the journey. But he was bound for Winterfell!

Eddard felt sure that the Manderlys would help him when he reached White Harbour. But, remembering the look on Lord Borrell's face, he decided that it would be sensible to endeavour to remain undetected until he reached the north. From White Harbour, he could ride up the White Knife and across to Winterfell. Once in the north, he was confident that he would find friends, and he could begin to call the banners as he journeyed.

But ill news met them at White Harbour. Forces loyal to the king had surrounded Winterfell from every direction, making it virtually impossible for Eddard to continue north. It would be far too dangerous to attempt the journey. Eddard felt defeated.

Despite the fact that he had lived in The Vale since he was a boy of eight, he had only ever felt truly at home at Winterfell. The statues of his Stark ancestors in the tombs below the castle seemed almost alive to Eddard. He loved the history of the place, and he fancied that his father had been proud of him for that at least.

_What if I never see Winterfell again?_

Lord Borrell's men offered to sail him back across The Bite as far as the swamplands, from where he could make his way across The Neck. The journey across the swamplands was hard going, but Eddard was helped by friends of Howland Reed who gave him shelter and safe passage, and, eventually, a horse that enabled him to ride to Seagard and on to Riverrun. He fancied that it was a combination of fear, fury and honour that enabled him to continue for several days without sleep. He lost track of time, thinking only of his destination. He spurred himself on with single words, repeating them like a mantra.

_Onward. Lyanna. Winterfell. Catelyn. Riverrun. Onward._

He spent whole nights, riding, riding, repeating the words over and over, until he fancied that perhaps he was going slightly mad. When Eddard reached The Whispering Wood, he knew he was close to his destination. He resolved to rest a night in the wood, and then to press on to Riverrun at first light.

When he heard the laughter, he thought he had truly lost his mind. The sharp laugh he heard he would have known anywhere, he had known it as long as he had known himself. Could it really be Jory?

Eddard hobbled his horse, and walked up a small hill towards the sound. Peering into a small valley he saw a fire and a group of men he had known all his life - Winterfell men. He walked towards them as if in a dream. The reunion was bittersweet. When the back-slapping and hugging and arm-thumping was done, Eddard found he had tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat. He slept better that night than he had during any night he could remember since leaving The Vale weeks before.

They set off at first light, reaching Riverrun when the sun was high in the sky. The morning's ride was an easy one, made even easier by the luxury of having friends around him, but Eddard suddenly found himself confronted with a thousand thoughts and worries. After spending weeks focusing on a single destination, all his previous muddled thoughts now surged back into his mind. He thought of Lyanna, of the grisly deaths of his father and brother, and of young Benjen at Winterfell. He was filled with worry for Robert Baratheon who was warring in the south, and, on top of all of this, he was overcome with uncertainty about why they were fighting the war at all. He wondered what the Old Gods would make of it, and prayed to them for guidance. Was it right that his sister and his best friend were plunging the whole of the Seven Kingdoms into a bloody war?

Eddard had always disliked hearsay. It made him feel uneasy. He had asked Jory for an account of his sister's kidnapping, but his friend could tell him nothing. He was desperate to speak to Lyanna. _Where are you?_   Only his sister would be able to tell the story - the story was hers to tell.

As they rode into the great castle at Riverrun, Eddard was verging on mental collapse. He needed sleep. He needed time to think. He had heard a great deal about the beauty of the architecture at Riverrun, but as they rode through the castle gates, all he could see was Jon Arryn - and that in itself made Eddard feel as though, in some way, he was coming home. He had heard good things about Hoster Tully, and as he dismounted his horse and walked to shake his hand, he noted with gratitude the older man's kind eyes, gravity and determination.

It was only when he was introduced to the boy Edmure, the future Lord of the Riverlands, that Eddard realised he should be asking after his sister. Shyly he glanced up the row of people and saw a very young wispy girl with dark red hair giggling and batting her eyelids nervously. He gulped, but then the girl bowed her head a little and looked to her left and Eddard set his eyes upon a slightly older girl, taller, with gleaming auburn hair and piercing blue eyes and a stilted smile on her face. _The Lady Catelyn._

 _She is not happy_ , he thought.

He walked to her and bent to kiss her hand.

“My lord,” she said, slowly and quietly.

When he heard her voice, so poised and direct, he was relieved beyond reason.

_This is not a silly girl. Thank the gods._

As he followed the men into the castle, he decided that this was as good a start to his marriage as any. But he quickly put the thought aside, because so many other matters were pressing.

**Author's Note:**

> These first chapters will tell the story from Catelyn's perspective. Comments gratefully received.


End file.
